What was I to say?
by WrittenOnTheSubwayWalls
Summary: Back to the beginning of Holmes and Watson's friendship starting with the day they met- A series of oneshots and shorts that took place before the Blackwood case. Rated for later chapters
1. Lucky Guess

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Ritchie's 2009 version

**AN)** Told in Watson's POV of course. The meeting of Holmes and Watson in this oneshot is based on Doyle's original Holmes and Watson introduction in his first Holmes story A Study in Scarlet.

**What was I to say?**

**Short 1- Lucky Guess**

* * *

The streets were wet and filthy and, for the most part, deserted. Empty streets were unusual for this time of day, ten in the morning, but the rain was heavy and the air was so cold it pinched at your skin.

"Doctor John Watson!" A woman by the name of Elieen Bankroaf waved her hand at me as she entered a carriage with another man. I politely waved back. Miss Bankroaf and I have had dinner a few times in the past, but in the end, it turned out that we had very little in common. There is bound to be problems in a relationship when all she wants to talk about is women climbing up the political ladder in society and you would rather talk about anything other than.

"Excuse me." I muttered to a gentlemen standing in the doorway of a small café. It was jammed full of people. Everywhere you moved you either bumped into someone or someone's table. It was not the nicest place in London, but it was cheap and easy to get to. Money has been a bit of a sore subject for me lately.

"Can I help you find a seat, dear?" The waitress asked. She was overweight and out of breath with her hair hanging in her face and sunken tired eyes.

"No, actually I came here to meet with some-"

"Oh, Watson, over here! Come on, get over here!" I heard the rough voice of my friend, Stamford, yell over the loud rumbling crowd. He and another man were sitting at a table in the back corner. I stumbled and pushed my way over to them and finally fell into the unoccupied third chair.

"What an accessible table you chose to sit at, gentlemen." I joked. Stamford was the same as always; his just a little too tight clothes hugging his heavy form and laugh lines already marking his young face. We had known each other all our lives. That is not to say that we have always been friends, but times change and so do people.

"How are you?" I asked my friend. He smiled and nodded.

"Good! Great! My oldest child, you remember Tod," I nodded and he continued. "He'll be starting his lessens with his tutor next week. Oh, they do grow fast."

"And how are the baby and your wife Jessica?"

"Beautiful, just beautiful. But enough of me, tell me about you!"

"Ahmm…there really isn't that much to say, Stamford, you know all about me. Nothing's changed."

"Ah, yes, but my other friend here hasn't even met you before." Stamford waved his finger to the man sitting across from him. Stamford's friend was staring out the window, it seemed, ignoring our conversation. From what I could immediately tell, the man had brown hair, was in good physical shape, and had a calm demeanor about him. I hadn't realized I had been staring until he moved uncomfortably in his seat and looked around the room as if broken out of some sort of deep thought.

"Yes yes, a doctor, that's very interesting." The man nodded to me and again looked around the room as if he was going to get up and run any second. I furrowed my eyebrows and thought back on the conversation Stamford and I just had. Neither of us had mentioned anything about me being a doctor.

"Stamford must have been talking about me behind my back, eh?" 'I chuckled. "I hope he didn't say too much."

"Actually, Stamford hasn't told me a thing about you other than your name."

"Oh? Then a lucky guess."

"Not a guess, Doctor, a conclusion. Observations pieced together to form a logical explanation. For example, the way you've laced your shoes." I quickly glanced down at my shoes and looked back up at his serene face. He was no longer looking around like a caged animal, but sitting easily with his leg across his knee and his elbow on the table.

Stamford, eager to break the awkward silence, cleared his throat.

"Ehmm ha mm...Dr. John Watson, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes." I held out my hand to Holmes and he took it immediately. "Watson, you said you were searching for a roommate to share the cost of lodgings-"

"You are?" Holmes sputtered and choked when taking a sip of tea. "So am I." He coughed once and pulled a ripped off piece of paper from his pocket. "There is a suite in Baker Street I have looked into." He opened up the ripped piece of paper, spread it out on the table, and pushed it towards me. I picked it up and read the scribbles.

_No. 221B, Baker Street_

What was I to say? I was indeed searching for a person to share the expense of housing with, but I had just met this man and, from what I've gathered so far, he was a little strange.

"Well, I…"

"We can meet there tomorrow and look the place over before we come to any final decisions."

"I…well um..."

"Wonderful, tomorrow it is. Same time?"

* * *

So there I was the next day, same time, rushing to get out of the cold rain again.

Finally, I reached 221 Baker Street and quickly knocked on the door.

"Hello?" An older woman answered.

"Hello," I removed my hat respectfully. "I'm here to-"

"So when are you moving in, Watson?" Sherlock Holmes's voice called to me from another room off to the right.


	2. Of Some Kind

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version

**What was I to say?**

**Short 2- Of Some Kind**

* * *

I took my time unpacking the rest of my books and placing them on the shelves. I didn't have anything else to do.

This had been the sixth day of my stay at 221 Baker Street. I was pleased with it, for the most part. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was a very kind woman or at least she was to me. I often heard her and my flatmate bickering over little things. She is, after all, a very orderly woman and Mr. Holmes, as I have come to find, is her exact opposite.

If he did have the door to his room open when I happened to walk by, I caught a glimpse of the disaster. Boxes of his belongings were stacked off to the side and papers covered the floor and bed. Clothes were carelessly thrown everywhere and the fowl stench of dust and chemicals smacked me in the face. No wonder the poor woman was constantly fighting with this man.

To me Sherlock Holmes was civil and quiet, but odd. We rarely spoke and when we did the conversation was as follows:

"Good day, Watson."

"Yes it is."

"I don't suppose you've seen the beast around at all?"

"If you are speaking of Mrs. Hudson, yes, actually I have. She is in the kitchen."

"Damn."

And he was gone.

I didn't mind this relationship. I didn't bother him and he didn't bother me. We went on with our lives like the other wasn't there until things started getting out of hand.

The third week was when Holmes had first started getting on my nerves. He was a master when it came to playing the violin, but any violin playing at three in the morning, no matter how extraordinary, was unbearable.

Finally, after the fifth day of midnight violin playing in a row, I got up from my bed and threw on my robe. This had to stop and it couldn't wait until morning.

"Mr. Holmes?" I knocked on his bedroom door. The violin never stopped. "Holmes!" I knocked a little harder. The bow scratched across the instrument's strings almost in a drunken manner. The notes were slightly out of tune and sloppy. "Holmes, will you please stop that racket! It's almost two in the morning!" He stopped and for a moment I heard nothing. I sighed and leaned against the door frame.

His voice mumbled words I couldn't make out and I heard the violin fall to the floor along with its bow. Footsteps ran across the floor and then the sound of heavy objects being thrown followed.

Again, I knocked on the door.

"Mr. Holmes, may we speak?" The thumping and bumping of whatever was being thrown stopped.

"Yes?"

"I would like a word."

"Yes."

"Are you going to open the door or am I going to speak to this piece of lumber?" There was a long pause and exasperated sigh before the door opened revealing the man. His face was unshaven and his hair was disheveled and greasy. I could have easily guessed that he hadn't cleaned himself in days. His clothes were a wrinkled mess and stained with blotches of numerous colors.

"What are you doing in here?" I asked, looking around at the mess behind him in awe. The curtains were drawn shut. The dirty cups and scribbled on papers had multiplied since I'd last had a peek inside the room.

"Nothing… or something… Nothing that you'd need to be concerned with, Doctor. Did I wake you? My apologies, I'll try my best to keep it down. Forgive me." He spouted off quickly and tried to shut the door in my face. Bewildered, and a bit concerned, my hand came up and stopped the door before I even had thought about it.

"Look at this place…look at you…" I shook my head in disbelief and let myself into his room. He looked taken aback, but didn't stop me. My face contorted at the fumes of the chemicals burning away in glasses on the other side of the room "This…can't be healthy." I remarked and made my way over to the windows. I opened them just enough for the fumes to escape and turned back to Holmes. He was on the floor in front of a pile of papers mumbling and sorting.

"Holmes," He didn't look up, but made a noise signaling me to go on. "What exactly do you do?"

"Ehmm…hmm?" He crinkled up one of the papers and crawled over to the foot of his bed where he grabbed a handful more and added them to the pile.

"Your job?" I angrily turned away and circled the room after only getting an incoherent murmur for an answer. "Alright, I suppose I can guess."

"Guess…?" I almost didn't catch what he had said it was so quiet. Then I remembered the conversation that passed between us that day at the café. When I said that his knowledge of me being a doctor was a lucky guess, he was offended.

"No, a conclusion." I corrected myself and smirked. He didn't move. "By the stinking chemicals I would think scientist or professor, but no offense when I say that I could never see you being a teacher." He kept quiet as I looked through his things. I picked up a sheet of paper off the floor and read it. Notes were written all over it; some sideways some upside-down. They read:

_Suspicion- Fannel Marks: Male, 5 feet tall, pointed nose, brown hair, limp- left foot, twitch in right eye_

_Five miles down from church take a right _

_Daughter of William Tamb- missing December 8- wooden church behind factory- dead_

_Blue with white spots- holding a cat and a brick of cheese_

The last note I read confused me, but the rest made perfect sense. The Tamb case had been in the newspaper a few months ago. Fannel Marks was charged with the murder of William Tamb's daughter. He was hanged two weeks ago.

"You are involved with the Scotland Yard somehow." I went on. "You are not an officer…am I right?" I didn't wait for his answer. "But with all this…" I stopped and picked up a newspaper clipping off the floor. "…information you have scribbled on these papers, I'd say you were a detective of some kind."

"Of some kind?" He turned to me with a tired smile. "I am a detective, Doctor, that's very good of you." He got up off the floor and took the paper and news clipping from me. "I was very glad to see that man hanged." He said before throwing them both in a pot of god knows what boiling over a flame close to the window. They caught fire and disintegrated.

"Is that what this is?" I motioned to the pile of papers on the floor. "A case?"

"No." He said coolly. "I'm cleaning."

I gave him a long hard look before shaking my head and heading towards the door.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."


	3. And So Began

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version

**AN: **Although the end of this short may sound like a close off, this is not my last one. I have way too many ideas. For me to end it here would be impossible.

**What was I to say?**

**Short3- ****And So Began**

* * *

"Ah! Damn!...Ah oof!"

As I was dodging bullets while running down a wooden stairway in a deteriorating lighthouse, I asked myself…

"_How did I get roped into this?"_

I could be nibbling on a toasted biscuit right now, reading the paper, and drinking a warm cup of tea to start my day. Unfortunately, that was not the case this morning.

A bullet hit the wall inches from my head just as I reached the door. I cursed and turned in the opposite direction. I wasn't going to risk losing my life going out that way.

Memories of my time as a surgeon in Afghanistan were flooding my mind as I rushed to the window and knocked out the glass with my elbow.

How did I get roped into this? Let me go back to the conversation, three days ago, that started the mess.

…

"Feeling ill today, Holmes?"

"No, I don't believe so…" He stopped, and thought about it before shaking his head. "No. Why?"

"You're up early."

"It's only eight thirty." He said, looking at his pocket watch and taking a seat at the table.

"It's nine thirty," I corrected. Holmes gave his watch a double-take. "And you're never up before eleven."

"That's not true."

"It is true."

"What time is it exactly?"

"Nine thirty two."

"No it's not." He mumbled while fiddling with the knob of his watch.

Mrs. Hudson entered and set a plate of corn bread with butter on the table. I helped myself to a piece of it and smiled up at her.

"Your baking is outstanding, Mrs. Hudson." I complimented. Her cheeks turned pink and she put a hand over her heart.

"The recipe was passed down from my dear grandmother, god bless her."She smiled, but frowned the second she realized there was another person at the table hiding behind the newspaper. "You're up early." Holmes peeked at her from behind the paper, but didn't say anything.

"Well," The landlady put her hands on her hips. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"I'm not hungry." He replied simply and looked back at the paper.

"What do you mean you're not hungry? You were in your room all day yesterday. Unless you're eating and drinking those unholy concoctions you're brewing up there, you'll eat." I couldn't help but chuckle when the women angrily cut a large piece of the corn bread, slapped it on a plate, shoved it towards him, and slammed the knife on the table scaring both of us out of our wits.

"Don't eat too much of that, Watson, it's probably poisoned." Holmes said loudly. Mrs. Hudson threw her hands up in the air and, with one last speech about how Holmes was going to starve himself to death and how god was going to come down and strike him, she exited the room.

"Why do you have to instigate." I snapped.

"Is it a crime not to be hungry?" He grumbled and started writing notes on the front page of the newspaper.

"New case?"

"Yes."

"What is it about?" He was either ignoring my question or too deep in thought to have heard me ask it, because he didn't answer.

We sat in silence for a whole five minutes until he surprised me by saying

"Care to join me?"

"What? Doing what?"

"Investigating this case."

"I don't know what use I'd be."

"You don't have to if you don't want to. I was just asking. You seemed interested."

"I am interested."

"Alright then." He stood up and shoved the large piece of corn bread in his mouth. "We'll leave in ten minutes."

"What?"

…

Strange it was, but that's how it went and now I was crawling out of a window to get away from two men who wanted me dead.

"Watson!" Holmes's voice called out to me. My hand slipped off the edge of the sill and I tumbled backwards out of the window into a pile of dirt and snow.

I heard a door being kicked in and officers yelling "Get down" from inside the lighthouse.

"Watson, were you shot? Are you alright?" Holmes questioned when he turned the corner and saw me lying in the snow.

"I'm fine. What's going on?"

"I caught Moore. He is in custody. Did you retrieve the evidence?" I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"Ha! Brilliant! Wonderful! Come on, let's get this to Lestrade."

And so began our strange partnership. As intolerable as Sherlock Holmes was, I felt that we were on our way to becoming close friends despite it.


	4. Gladstone

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version

**Further Disclaimer- **There is a specific reference to Doyle's "**A Scandal in Bohemia**" in this short.

**  
What was I to say?**

**Short4 – Gladstone **

* * *

I was in the sitting room. The sun was bright, a rare happening for this time of year, and the curtains were wide open. I chose the chair I was sitting in, because it was directly in the sunlight. Both the light and the warmth of a nice sunny day always calmed me. The wind was too chilly to be outside, but my spot on the chair was just as good.

It had been a busy week. For the fourth time, I accompanied Sherlock Holmes on one of his investigations. His methods were unorthodox, but exciting and I found myself unable to say no when he asked me to tag along. Whether he really appreciated my input or not, I couldn't tell.

I thought the war in Afghanistan was enough adventure to last me a lifetime, but there are different kinds of adventure. Once you've found the right one for you, it becomes addicting. In fact, those four cases wound make interesting stories. I had often thought about writing about them, but never actually got around to doing it.

I had even thought out titles for them.

"A Scandal in Bohemia" would do nicely for the third. It had been an interesting case, a tricky one for even Holmes. Of course there was the subject of the woman Holmes had met. Irene Alder was her name. I didn't have the pleasure of getting to know her that well, but any talk about her in front of Holmes was a sore subject. Her being the only woman to have ever out witted Holmes may have played a part. If I didn't know any better, I'd say my friend actually liked her.

"…so damn bright outside…can't stand it…" I heard Holmes complain. "Where has that witch put the paper?" Holmes's murmurs and ramblings continued until he spotted me in the chair.

"Oh, Hello, Watson." He said quickly and snatched the newspaper from the stool.

"Hel-" My friendly reply was cut short when I noticed something different about my flatmate. "…Is that my shirt?" There was no mistaking it. He was wearing _my_ shirt. I knew the style of his shirts and the one he was wearing now was certainly not his.

"Yes." He answered without hesitation. I frowned and squinted my eyes as if it would help me understand the man.

"Why?"

"Why not? I needed a clean shirt. You had clean shirts."

"So you just stole one of mine?"

"Borrowed."

"Stole.

"Borrowed."

"Borrowed without asking."

"Yes."

"Stole."

"No."

"My god." I sighed and leaned back in my chair, done with the conversation.

_Bark!_

It was just a shirt, after all, and there was no winning.

_Bark!_

I was going to close my eyes, sit back, and enjoy the sun while it was still up and out.

_Bark! Bark! Bark! Growl… Bark!_

"What…" I opened my eyes and listened.

_Bark! Bark!_

"It's a dog, John. Ever heard of one?" Holmes scoffed. He sat on the sofa across from me, paper in hand.

"Yes." I spat. "It just sounds awfully close to the door."

"So go out and give it a little kick."

"Holmes!" He looked up at me. I glowered at him for a moment before getting up and opening the door. A loving smile automatically plastered itself on my face when, down at my feet, I saw an English bulldog. It was sitting with its tongue out and drool hanging from its mouth.

"Hello." I bent down and petted it on the head. "Where did you come from?"

"Did you get rid of it?" Holmes called. The dog barked.

"Don't mind him, he's a bastard." I laughed as it hopped and tried to lick my face. "No no no. Down."

"Ridiculous." Holmes's voice huffed.

_Bark! Bark!_

"Shhhh...stop!" The witty thing was trying to get past me into the house.

_Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!_

With one final jump, the dog managed to knock me over and run past me into the sitting room barking like mad.

"Watson!" I scrambled to my feet and stumbled into the sitting room. The bulldog was barking and growling at Holmes.

"It serves you right."

"Watson control your- Ah!" He yelped as the dog jumped up on the sofa and tried to climb on his lap and lick his face. "Get off! Get Down! Sit! Doctor, don't just stand there- Ah! Eww stop! Sit!"

I collapsed into a laughing fit on the floor. The dog succeeded in climbing on the detective's lap, crushing and biting the newspaper in Holmes's hand.

"Not the paper…" He whimpered. The dog happily jumped down and came back to me, its little stub of a tail wagging. "It's a he." Holmes hissed.

"He's adorable." I chuckled.

"He's not staying."

"We should keep him."

"Did you not just hear-"

"I'll name him Gladstone."

"I said we're not-… What? Gladstone? Why on earth would you name him that?"

"I had a dog named Gladstone when I was young."

"Yes, well that's very sweet, but he's not staying." Holmes slid off the sofa and, with disgust, tapped the canine on the butt with the shredded rolled up newspaper. "Shoo!"

"Don't do that!" I took the paper away from him and threw it behind me. Instantly, Gladstone got up and went after it. Proudly waddling back, he dropped the now soggy, shredded, rolled up newspaper at Holmes feet.

Something resembling the emotion of fondness flashed in my friend's eyes. I let it set in and after a second of the two staring at each other, Holmes bent down, picked up the paper, and threw it farther. Of course, Gladstone fetched it and brought it back.

"Bulldogs are the ugliest breed, in my opinion." Holmes stated while petting Gladstone and again throwing the paper.

"You're just trying to find something to dislike about him." He wiped his nose and shrugged his shoulders. I was right and he knew it.

"I suppose…he could come…to…some use." Holmes muttered.

"His _use_," I started toward the kitchen. Gladstone followed close behind. "Is to be a dog. A pet, Holmes. Ever heard of one?"


	5. A little Mishap

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version

**What was I to say?**

**Short 5– A Little Mishap **

* * *

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson's shrill screams woke me from my sleep.

Not that I wouldn't do anything for that woman, but the violin playing had not ceased and the one night my friend actually decides to let me sleep, I end up rushing to my door to help a very distraught Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank goodness you're awake!" I tried not to make a face. "He's setting things on fire in there, I know it! I'm not going to go in there! You've got to stop him! He's crazy! He'll burn down-"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson," I rubbed my eyes. "I'm sure it's nothing like that at all." Actually, it could've been just as she said. I wouldn't put it past Sherlock Holmes to accidentally burn down Baker Street while conducting one of his off the wall experiments.

"_Shit!"_ Holmes cursed loudly from his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson put a trembling hand to her mouth and looked at me.

"I'll go um…Wait here." The landlady nodded and hugged the door frame.

As I turned the corner, I could see black smoke seeping out from beneath his door. My heartbeat quickened. A sick feeling ached in my chest. I could hear Gladstone whining and scratching at the door.

Was Holmes alright? Was he burning to death? Did he pass out? The frightening possibilities were endless.

Just as I was about to reach the door, though, it swung open and a cloud of smoke escaped the room while a coughing Holmes dropped to his knees in front of me. Gladstone rushed out shortly behind and barked and nudged the coughing Holmes with his head.

It wasn't as bad as it seemed. The smoke wasn't that thick, but the smell was almost too much to bear.

"Nothing's on fire, is it?" I had to yell over his coughing.

"No…I It was just a... a little m-mishap."

"Mrs. Hudson nearly fainted."

"Old witch."He staggered to his feet while taking out a handkerchief

"Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hudson rushed over to us, looked at Holmes, and then looked into his room. The landlady's voice was still quivering.

"Ugh. Speak of the devil." Holmes mumbled and gave the woman a fake smile.

"What were you doing? What was that? You could have gotten yourself killed! I was worried sick! I thought something terrible had happened!"

"Nothing terrible happened, Nanny." He spat and turned away to cough into his handkerchief. "Y-your precious room is still intact."

"My precious room?" She repeated in fury. "This isn't about the room, Sherlock Holmes!"

Holmes turned on his heel and looked at Mrs. Hudson as if he hadn't expected her to get angry over his comment.

"You could have killed yourself! You could have died! Does the word death mean anything to you, Mr. Holmes, or do you think yourself invincible?"

"I… well I…" He sputtered, unsure how to answer the furious older woman in front of him. It would have been humorous if the situation being addressed wasn't something I had been concerned with myself. Holmes was indeed far too careless with his privilege to live.

_Bark! Bark!_

"Hush, Gladstone, sit!" I commanded. The dog did as he was told, but made sure to plop himself down right next to Holmes's feet.

"Fascinating," Instantly using Gladstone's actions as a way to change the subject, Holmes bent down and pet him. "A canine's protective instinct is resilient. I'm not even nice to this animal…"

"Holmes." I gave him a look and nodded to Mrs. Hudson.

"Ah…" He cleared his throat and stood up. "I mmm… I'm very…that is, I didn't…it was not my intention to-" Mrs. Hudson's face softened.

"Apology accepted, Mr. Holmes." She smiled warmly. "Goodnight, Gentlemen."

"Goodnight." Holmes and I mumbled in unison. We watched her disappear down the stairs.

"I didn't expect her to get over it that easily." I commented.

"Yes, that was a bit suspicious."

"_Suspicious_ was not the word I was looking for."

"Now that I think about it…"

"Holmes, stop."

"Where does she go when she leaves for all those hours?"

"Visiting a friend, perhaps? Strolling through the market? Picking flowers in a field?"

"No, she walks. There aren't any flower fields within walking distance."

"That was a joke." I ran my hand down my face and patted my friend on the back. "Go to bed."

"Your right, I'll keep a close eye on her." Shaking my head, I whistled for Gladstone to follow me and headed back to my room.

"Goodnight, Holmes."


	6. Pandora's Box Part One

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version

**A/N: **This short is in two parts and is based on Doyle's original short **"The Dying Detective". ** Basically my version of Doyle's "The dying detective" Guy Richie style.

**What was I to say?**

**Short 6– Pandora's Box- Part 1 **

* * *

I was miserable.

There was no other word to describe how I felt.

My throat was stinging, I couldn't breathe out of my nose, my eyes were watering, and to make matters worse I was in jail.

Yes, you heard me correct. Not actually behind bars yet, but waiting to be put behind bars along with a whole bunch of other scoundrels… including Holmes.

"This is all your fault." I grumbled to Holmes who was sitting next to me on the bench farthest away from everyone else.

"Not entirely." Holmes argued. "The man who had us arrested for breaking into his house also had a hand-"

"It was _your_ idea, y_our_ plan!" I yelled, but caught myself and lowered my voice. "You didn't even tell me what we were looking for. What did you need me for then?"

"John, you know I appreciate your help…"

"How was I supposed to help if I didn't even know what we were looking for?"

"We didn't have time for explanations. Anyway, it worked, didn't it?"

"Heh!" I forced cynical laugh through my nose and spat on the ground in front of me. "How did it work?" How is this working?" He shifted uneasily in his seat and looked away from me.

Honestly, out of all the investigations I had joined him on, this one was, by far, the most aggravating. And worse, I told him I was sitting this one out and he still found a way to get me to come along.

"Look." He held up his finger and reached into his coat pocket, producing a small box. It was black and white and had strange symbols around it in red.

"Where did you get that? What is it?" I asked, unable to get the irritated snapping tone out of my voice.

"It's what we were looking for.

"What _you_ were looking for." I corrected.

"I grabbed it before the police found us."

"Yes, but what is it?"

"It's a weapon, Watson. It is a weapon very much like the one I believe killed Victor Smith."

"I thought we were over that case, Holmes, you couldn't prove anything. Victor got sick and died. People get sick. I'm sick right now."

"Wrong. He wasn't sick…I mean, he was sick, but it was deliberate. This is the proof!"

"Let me see it." I grabbed for the box, but he pulled his hand back.

"No, listen. Inside this box there is a sharp spring. When it is opened, it infects its victim with the illness." I wiped my nose with my sleeve (the only thing I had at the time) and raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, let's say that you're right. What was it doing in Culverton Smith's house?"

"Exactly."

"You believe that he killed Victor?"

"Almost undoubtedly. Victor was his nephew. Culverton Smith's brother was a very wealthy man. He probably wanted his brother's inheritance. Culterton and Victor were his only remaining family. Of course, the money was left to Victor. "

"Almost? Culverton Smith is a respected researcher. It's going to take more than a little booby-trapped box and a theory to -"

"We broke into Smith's house so I could be sure that I was on the right track. Proving that Culverton Smith is a murderer with just one piece of evidence is not the plan."

"So getting caught was the plan?"

"… no."

"Then what _is_ the plan?" I hissed.

"What do we got here?" A drunken slurred voice laughed. We both looked up from our bickering to see an overweight man with vomit stains on his shirt towering over us.

"Hello." Holmes said almost too casually. The man frowned and grabbed Holmes's shirt, pulling him up by the collar.

"You bein' funny?" The man's fist pulled back.

I jumped up to help, but my head spun from getting up too quickly with a cold and I sat back down. "Wait…ah lord, I hate this weather." I groaned with my face in my hands.

"Thank you, Watson. Your negotiating is flawless." Holmes remarked. "A real Diplomat."

"Shut up!" The man shook him.

"You know," Holmes said quickly and smirked. "This reminds me of a fairly good joke, if you'd like to hear it." The drunken man scrunched up his face.

"Huh?"

* * *

"Alright. Listen up, boys. A murderer is condemned to death. He has to choose between three rooms: The first is full of raging fires, the second is full of assassins with loaded guns, and the third is full of lions that haven't eaten in 3 years. Which room is safest for him?"

I couldn't believe it. It was working. They were all huddled around our bench eagerly waiting for the answers to Holmes's witty teasers.

"Eighty-five thousand!" He continued on with another joke. "How can such a small business afford a sum like that? And the owner says-"

"Holmes and Watson," An officer yelled. "You're out."

"Perfect timing." Holmes stood up and dragged me with him to the gate, ignoring the other inmate's sighs of disappointment.

Inspector Lestrade shook his head and waved for us to come over to him.

"Breaking into a house, gentlemen?"

"In the name of justice." Holmes answered with a bored sigh. Lestrade stepped closer and leaned in to speak privately.

"Now, listen. I had to pull some major strings to get you two out of there." He complained. "Don't be expecting that again. Next time, you'll have to shovel your way out with a spoon."

"We're very thankful." I shook Lestrade's hand and elbowed Holmes in the side.

"Ahhoww Yes! Very…Very good, Lestrade, I have something for you." Holmes pulled the small box back out of this pocket. "Before I give this to you, though, you must know that this box is a deadly trap. Give it to a professional and have it opened." Lestrade eyed it before taking it in his hands.

"Uh-huh, and where did you get this treasure?"

"Borrowed it," He said hastily and added. "From Culverton Smith's house." The way he spoke of such things like he hadn't a care in the world disturbed me. As for Lestrade, he seemed lost for words, but recovered after a deep breath.

"Smith? Culverton Smith? That's the house you two were rummagin' through?"

"_He_ was rummaging through." I corrected. Holmes shot me a look. Lestrade's frown became more pronounced.

"Don't do anything stupid"

"Like-wise." Holmes countered and started to walk away.

"Hold it!" The police inspector grabbed his arm. "I'm serious, this is a closed case. Even if they do find a similarity between your pretty little jewelry box and Victor Smith, you're gonna need witnesses; a confession. You're gonna need cold hard evi-"

"I'm aware, thank you." He cut in and roughly pulled away.

"Doctor," Holmes glanced my way and tilted his head to the right before walking in that direction.

"Like a faithful dog." Lestrade spat, saying out loud what I was too embarrassed to say myself. "Don't let him order you like that." He added and turned away.

"No." I agreed. That was exactly what I felt like; the faithful dog.

A cold breeze ran a chill through me and I rushed to catch up with my "friend".

"Holmes, I'm sitting out on this investigation." I said while we twisted in and out of the streets.

"You said that earlier."

"So we're clear?"

"About what?"

"That I will not be accompanying you."

"Oh, you won't be?" He stopped and looked at me as if I was mad.

"I'm tired." I breathed and again wiped my nose on my sleeve. "I'm trying to get over a cold and this running around is making it worse." Holmes's shoulder's dropped.

"I see."He stared for a moment longer before nodding. "I understand."

"You do?"

"Yes."

We didn't speak for the rest of the night. Holmes didn't seem angry, but something was off. He was oddly quiet. Not a single noise escaped his room. Not that I'm complaining. I had a marvelous night's sleep.

* * *

…**To be continued**


	7. Pandora’s Box Part Two

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version

**A/N: **This short is part two of two parts and is based on Doyle's original short **"The Dying Detective"**. Basically my version of Doyle's "The dying detective" Guy Richie style.

**What was I to say?**

**Short 7– Pandora's Box- Part 2 **

* * *

I awoke the next morning feeling well-rested and halfway over my cold. I still couldn't breathe through my nose, but that would clear out with a few cups of tea and another day of rest.

I had overslept, which was fine. I had nowhere to be.

Holmes didn't make a sound. I thought about going to his room and checking on him, but if he was in the middle of something, the best thing for me to do was to stay out of it. Besides, I was not helping him.

I felt a little guilty about backing out even though I knew I shouldn't have. I was sick. After following him on that ridiculous break in, and let's not forget about the jail yard, I deserved the rest.

"Look who decided to join the living!" Mrs. Hudson's cheery voice rang. She always liked me better than Holmes. Then again, most people did. "How are you feeling today?

"Good Morning." I smiled coming down the stairs. "I don't suppose you've seen Holmes up and around today, have you?"

"You wouldn't think so." She oddly stated and poured some tea into my cup. I gave her a confused look. "I have seen Mr. Holmes this morning. He rushed out the door just before the sun came up."

_Strange… _

"So early, in fact, I was still in my night clothes." She continued. "I was woken up by a boy who came knocking at the door with a small box for Mr. Holmes."

"A box?" I repeated. I was finding it hard to eat my breakfast with this news.

"The boy said it was urgent so I went straight up the stairs and gave it to the madman. He stayed in his room for a good hour before leaving."

This wasn't anything new. Holmes was always receiving visitors, boxes, and notes at irregular hours of the morning.

"_...came knocking at the door with a small box for Mr. Holmes."_

However, this circumstance unnerved me.

"…_a small box…"_

The memory of Holmes producing that small black box from his coat pocket repeated itself over and over…

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson's asked. Just as she said this there was a loud crash from the room above us.

"What in heaven's…?" Mrs. Hudson gasped. "I thought he'd gone out! I saw him leave!"

Instantly, I stood from the table and ran up the stairs to Holmes's room.

A million scenarios were shooting through my mind.

A burglar? A murderer? The possibilities were endless…

Stopping at the closed door, I listened.

The sound of glass sliding off the tables and smashing into pieces echoed through the upstairs. The thuds of heavy books hitting the wooden floorboards and the thunderous barks of our bulldog almost covered up the curses being spewed by the single human life throwing themselves around the room.

"Shh! Shut- Stop- Gladstone, silence!" A barely audible voice snapped. Relief washed over me. That was the voice of Sherlock Holmes, no mistaking it

"Holmes?" I knocked on the door sharply.

"What…Ah! Damn!" His voice was gravelly and his words were slurred. "leave…go away…"

"Are you alright? What are you doing?"

"I s-said leave, Bitch, you… two-faced, wicked…don't you have annn…anything better to do?"

"What?" Was he drunk? He wasn't making any sense. It almost sounded as though he thought I were Mrs. Hudson.

"Go away scum … rancid… no good…" The rest of his muddled reply was drowned out by Gladstone's barking. I sighed to myself and checked my watch. Almost noon.

"I'm coming in." I warned before opening the door fast and ducking out of the way of any projectiles that might suddenly be hurled at the doorway. I've known him long enough to know that simply opening the door and strolling into Sherlock Holmes's bedroom was suicide.

"Good day, Watson." He grumbled.

"Ah," I carefully entered the room. "So you _did _know it was me. Sorry, I had no idea you were so angry about... what again?" He was on the floor flipping through a book. His hair was disheveled and unclean and I was sure he was wearing the same wrinkled clothing from the day before.

"When you called me a Bitch, I almost thought you were referring to Mrs. Hudson." I coolly added.

Still he said nothing, only coughed and rubbed his eyes before throwing the book away from him into another shelf of books that toppled over upon impact. I couldn't believe the mess. I mean, his room was always a mess, but this was chaotic. It literally looked like he had purposely destroyed his room. Without another word, I walked over to where he sat on the floor, but as soon as I reached him he scrambled away from me.

"N-no! No! Watson, get back!" I didn't move. "Stay way. It's extremely contagious."

"What is…?"

"The box, Watson, you remember!" I shook my head. "Accidentally! I knew what it was. I thought I had it under control." He rambled and ripped a page out of the book in his hand.

"Holmes, calm down-" I hadn't noticed how pale and sick he looked. Again, I tried to get closer.

"No! NO! STAY BACK!" He shouted and stumbled to the doorway. "You can't help me! You can't get near…"

My head felt like it was filling with smoke. I knew all too well what box he was referring to. I instantly thought of Culverton Smith. He obviously wasn't happy about Holmes breaking into his home and accusing him of murder. It made perfect sense that Smith would send one of his deadly traps to the detective that was trying to expose him.

Was this really happening? Was this deadly illness so contagious that Holmes would not even let me within feet of him? How do you help a friend who won't let you near him?

Holmes leaned against the door frame, head hung and breathing heavily.

"I have to go to him." He croaked. "He's the only one who has the-"

"Who?"

"Do you really want to help me, John?"

"Yes."

"Exactly as I say?"

"Yes…"

"No questions asked-"

"Yes, yes! For heaven's sake!"

* * *

I looked at my pocket watch. It was almost one in the afternoon and I was standing in the office of Inspector Lestrade, begging him to believe what I was saying.

Holmes had given me very strange instructions, but clear nonetheless…

"Go to Lestrade.

Convince Lestrade to help you re-break into the house of Culverton Smith.

Hide in the study (the same room where the officers had caught us last time) and listen.

No matter what you hear, stay silent until I call for you."

……………………………………….

"You're joking." Lestrade spat without looking up from his paperwork. I shook my head.

"Inspector Lestrade, I know this sounds…odd, but we're running out of time." I pleaded.

"Lord above." Lestrade sighed and stood up from his desk.

"You're sure he wasn't-"

"If he was under the influence of anything other than illness, I doubt he would've given me such clear instructions." Lestrade seemed content with that answer.

"…Fine…But he's coming with us." Lestrade snapped at the young officer to his right. "He'll stand at the front door." I opened my mouth to protest, but Lestrade was adamant. "I won't be under suspicion. We can at least make this look like we know what we're doing."

He was right. I gave the officer a nod.

"Stay off to the side away from the windows." I said to him. The officer nervously glanced from me to Lestrade.

"He's new." Lestrade mumbled.

…

I lead the way, Leastrade and the young officer at my heels, to the house of Culverton Smith. As soon as we stepped up to the doorway we could hear voices; one of which I recognized as Sherlock Holmes's.

Lestrade looked around. "Alright, so…how do we um..."

"Through the back." I answered and climbed over Smith's dingy old wooden fence.

"_Me_ climb over _that_?" I heard Lestrade complain. After a few seconds he growled and whispered "Stay there" fiercely to the officer before heaving himself over the fence.

"Now what…"

"Shhh!" I hushed him and crept to the edge of the back window.

Holmes and Smith's voices were muffed through the glass, but easily understandable.

"_Smith, I beg of you-" _

"_Yes beg, detective. By the looks of you, I'd say you have no more than an hour or two left to live..." _

"Did you hear what I was hearing?" The inspector's voice was high pitched as if he was surprised.

"Shh!"

"What sort of trouble did he get himself into now?" Lestrade looked at me for the answer.

"_If you believe in a god,"_ Smith continued. _"Now would be the time to pray."_

I never told Lestrade that Holmes had been pricked by the deadly box's spring. It would only have caused unnecessary conversation and I was in a hurry.

So, again, I hushed him and slowly opened the window.

"Ladies first." I heard Lestrade grumble and decided it was in my best interest to let it go.

"Don't tell me you didn't expect this to happen." Smith's voice mocked from the next room as Lestrade and I crawled through the window and shut it behind us. We were in the study, as Holmes directed. The walls were red with gold framed pictures of stormy nights and ship wrecks. By the look on Lestrade's face I knew he wanted to comment, but instead shook his head.

"You are right. You are more superior than I am." Holmes said quickly. "Help me- help me and I'll let everyone know-"

"Yes, I'm sure you will let everyone know I had poisoned you!" Smith snarled.

"No. No." Hearing Holmes give in to this lunatic was too much to stomach.

"Besides, it's about time you suffer for the trouble you've given me…"

Lestrade and I stood side by side as close to the room's opening as we could possibly get without being seen. Lestrade was closer, having put his hand up at me to be there. Him being the authority, I had no problem with the inspector being the one who could see better, but it was unsettling for me. The only thing I could see was Holmes kneeling on the floor by the front door. Smith must have been on the other side of the room.

Holmes gave Lestrade and me a quick glance, but turned back to Smith when Smith opened his mouth again.

"But tell me, Mr. Holmes, I have to know why on earth you would come to me during your last moments on earth? You are not a stupid man. You must have known I would never give you the antidote."

"Perhaps I wasn't really looking for you to give me the antidote." My friends tone was tired and serious.

"Oh? A confession then? Is that what you want?" Smith frigidly laughed. "My dear man, how pathetic. But I won't crush a dying man's wishes, no, I will tell you."

I heard clanking of glasses and the pouring of liquid. Holmes's eyes were fixed on the floor, but there was a sort of smirk behind them that only could be seen if you knew his features well.

"It was I who killed my brother and his son Victor…. "Culverton Smith admitted.

Lestrade's expression changed from confusion to shock.

"For the money, I presume." Holmes added.

"Yes, for the money. No man would be stupid enough to pass up such an opportunity."

"An opportunity to murder your brother and his only child?"

"To get the money that was rightfully mine!" Smith screamed and stormed over to where Holmes kneeled on the floor. Holmes's breathing was heavy, but his features were calm.

"You won't get away with this, Smith." He whispered. "Someone will become suspicious… The Scotland Yard knows about the little poisonous gifts you've been making. If I suddenly come up missing a day after revealing your murder technique-"

"Hmm..hmhmhm." Smith's laughter overrode him. "They needn't suspect what happened to you, detective, I'll tell them the truth." Holmes's eyebrows furrowed. "I shot you."

The silence that followed was sickening. The fact that Holmes didn't have a comeback for that was not a good sign.

My lungs stopped filling with air.

Lestrade's hand moved and rested over the gun on his waist.

When would be the time to come out of hiding? When Holmes tells us to? What if he's already been shot and killed?

"You're right," Holmes sighed and looked up at Smith with a smirk clearly present on his face. "You may then tell them how I threatened you and that you did it out of self defense..." Noticing the change in Holmes's voice, Smith took a few steps back. "And you will go on about how crazy I was and how it was the only way to get out of the situation alive…" Taking out a handkerchief, Holmes rubbed it over his face and got up off the floor.

"What? What is this nonsense? You're dying!" Smith shouted.

Lestrade took this as his queue and stepped into Smith's sight, pistol aimed.

"Hands in the air, Mr. Smith." Smith's mouth moved up and down without saying a word. Lestrade took out his handcuffs. "I believe that was a confession."

"Holmes…" I adjusted my hat and snatched the handkerchief from his hand.

It was covered with white powder and black smudges.

"Make-up…"

"Yes, make-up. The hunger pains, thirst, and lack of sleep, also contributed."

"You were never sick…"

"No," He cleared his throat. "But you were wonderful, Watson. Brilliant play."

"I…I-I…Y- But you…"

"Tricked you? Yes. I'm sorry, but believe me when I tell that your ignorance was essential."

"So you were never pricked by the spring?"

"Of course not, and the illness that the spring gave off was not contagious. Deadly? Yes. Contagious? No."

I didn't know if I was angry or relived. Did I have a right to be angry?

"You lied." Were the only worlds I could vomit from my mouth.

I might have eventually found something to say, had the young officer not burst through the door at that very second and pointed a gun at Holmes's face.

"You're under arrest!" He yelled. Holmes faked a smile and pointed to the handcuffed Culterton Smith. The officer stared for a moment, but got the idea."Right."

"I do apologize, Watson" Holmes said, ignoring the rookie officer's awkward fidgeting.

"Why didn't you just tell me the plan?"

"I knew Lestrade would never come with you unless you looked completely and utterly desperate for his help." Lestrade made a noise and mumbled something. "It would have been an inconvenient time to test your acting skills, so I made you believe that I was really on deaths door step."

"Clever." I hissed.

"When I received that package this morning, I instantly knew enough to suspect something fowl. The plan formed so quickly I barely had time to tweak the details."

"Like almost getting shot?"

"…No, I had the situation completely under my control." I rolled my eyes.

"Yes, completely."

* * *

The next afternoon was a sunny one. My cold was nothing but a sniffle and I was sitting in my favorite chair in the warmth of the sun.

"Good day, Watson."Holmes said. His voice was groggy and tired, but back to normal and he looked ten times healthier than he did the day before.

"It is a good day." I answered.

Holmes sat across from me, lazily sprawled across the sofa.

"Thank you." He said abruptly.

"Hm? For what?"

"It does make a considerable difference to me having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely."

I looked up from my paper, a bit taken aback.

"Well... You're welcome."

* * *

**A/N: **Anyone pick up on the quote?

And oh! The answer to that riddle Holmes told the inmates...

"Alright. Listen up, boys. A murderer is condemned to death. He has to choose between three rooms: The first is full of raging fires, the second is full of assassins with loaded guns, and the third is full of lions that haven't eaten in 3 years. Which room is safest for him?"

**Answer:** The room with the lions that havn't eaten in three years. (If they havn't eaten in three years, they'd be dead.)


End file.
